The Online Portfolio of Dan W. Christmann
Empty the mind in white porcelain
So that it becomes full.
At the window of the Early Bird Cafe
The crisscross of the light
Fantastic squiggles across the black coffee’s surface
Like veins converging at the backdoor
Of every eye.
As it is within
So without.
Underneath, the oil slick mind
Waiting.
Do I dare to drink
Disturb the waters?
Hovering over them
Poured into cracked vessels
Unseen and unheard.
all those folks trying
to make sense of the world
remember
tulips grow
tulips sensing the world
remember to grow
world tuliping folks
made nonsense
remembering the world
tulips sensed non
dewing no weep
tulips growed on
ashes
without us
It all turns to vapor. The woman in black and blue
dressed like she’s going.
Memory’s a breath
That heaves through the mind’s organ and sets it singing.
Here’s the censor, here’s the cross,
Here’s the night’s spirit, the streetlight pooling below like a portal
to this exact now
to these exact words from those exact lips
made not by hand.
We’re all of us looking for some kind of communion
in the cave beneath our lungs, in the stuttering of birds wings,
like the etching of a kiss gilded in ash .
There is nothing left but that first truth
And its residue endlessly painted
No one but time sitting with tempera and brush
Her heavy lidded eyes.
On the Shoulders of Giants 